


Beowulf: An Adventure of the Missing Years

by Meltha



Category: Beowulf (Poem)
Genre: Action, Gen, Poetry, Yuletide, Yuletide 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-05 08:17:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5368124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meltha/pseuds/Meltha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beowulf is king in Geatland, but peace and prosperity can't always be the way of things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beowulf: An Adventure of the Missing Years

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cefyr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cefyr/gifts).



Hark. The tale of Beowulf, good king, is told.  
Years since Heorot passed, and Geatland’s peace  
Was far renowned. Right well the people  
Did rejoice in their weir, for wondrous fair was  
Beowulf’s reign, his sword-brothers strong,  
The fields of grain were filled with abundance.  
Even the north wind, wickedly biting ice-teeth,  
Seemed to blow less, checking bitterness with bliss.  
Such joy, though craved, cannot last for long  
In this painful world. So it was that  
Word came soon enough of sore trouble.  
A most monstrous bird was sighted on the border,  
Winging its evil way towards the waiting Geats.  
It was bold Roan, guard of Beowulf’s realm,  
Who first saw the beast, its form gigantic, twisted,  
Its shriek like Doomsday as it shattered the sky.  
Brave man was he, for he did not bolt  
Though shudder he did, as any sane man  
When confronted with death, the end of all,  
In plain and certain view. His sword he put up  
To challenge the foe, growling in courageous wrath.  
The end was naught. The bird plunged earthward,  
Picked up the warrior with its polished talons,  
And carried him skyward, then smashed him against  
The bones of earth, the rocks which break  
Through the fertile soil, wetting the waiting dirt  
With the man’s red blood, bashing out his brain.  
His close kinsmen, Rand, saw all that happened.  
Less brave, more cunning, he broke and ran  
Eluding the monster’s beak, until Beowulf’s mead-hall  
Was in his sight, the door slammed shut.  
He reported the attack, and round the benches  
Men stopped their drinks midway to their mouths  
And listened, dumb-struck, to the dire tidings.  
“Roan lies bravely dead,” Rand spoke to the silent.  
“As sure as sunrise or waning of the moon  
A most unholy monster now makes its roost  
Near the southern border, man-eater, soul-stealer,  
Singer of steel-songs, enemy of all men.  
We must go hence to make it haste  
Towards some other place, better still, to death.”  
Then eyes all looked towards their liege lord  
And Beowulf, ever calm, did bend his head  
As though to think upon these awful words,  
But soon he spoke, and they listened silently.  
“What manner of bird, monstrous, blasphemous  
Against the great Creator’s command to Adam  
That all animal nature be under man’s control,  
Is it that has robbed us of Roan, good Rand?”  
“I know not certainly, but I nearly think  
It be the Persian bird, the Roc, that puts  
Its evil iron claw even upon the homeland  
Of our dear forefathers. I fear it is truth.”  
The king did nod, though warriors near at hand  
Did tremble despite courage, and some few could  
Be seen to slip near to the hall’s sturdy door  
As though to dart away from the dire adventure  
That now came upon the previously happy crew.  
To drink is easy, to boast is common,  
To enjoy a given ring, a fine torque, gold  
In all its forms from the ring-giver,  
All is very pleasant until a perilous day  
Arrives which forces action, demanding proof  
Of warm fireside boasts before beautiful women.  
Not all who claim bravery are truly brave.  
Beowulf’s men, shield-bearers, were still but men,  
And held life dear, wanting another dawn  
More than wondrous glory, more than great fame.  
But Beowulf, Grendel-killer, who beneath the waters  
Killed the monster’s mother, cheating death, keeping life,  
Was of different mettle. He rose and went  
To the weapon-cache that hung close by  
Upon the mead-hall’s walls: axes, spears, swords, maces,  
All most finely wrought and used by warriors  
In their daily work to defend the Geats.  
Beowulf took in hand a sword of steel,  
But the trouble came. His grip too tight,  
The hilt did shatter, splinter into sharp fragments.  
“The old story again,” he muttered self-wise,  
And the warriors grunted. Their king was strong.  
He was stronger still than iron-monger’s skill.  
“Bring forth old Garr, the blacksmith, from his forge  
To try his luck at tempering steel to me  
That I may wield it ‘gainst the malevolent foe.”  
Pity Garr the blacksmith! He labored in purgatory  
Pushing a rock uphill, watching it plummet back,  
For no matter his skill, and he was greatly skilled,  
His lord’s strength undid his life’s work.  
Iron, steel, even stone had he striven with  
To make a blade that brooked this baleful blessing.  
But to no avail. Beowulf broke everything.  
Garr answered the summons, bringing a great sack  
Filled with sharp blades, all fine work, wonderful,  
And all alike fated to end as metal filings  
Once they had but touched the king’s strong hand.  
But lo! One sword, so huge in size  
It dwarfed even great Beowulf’s gigantic grasp,  
Did manage to survive his magnificent grip.  
“At last!” Beowulf cried. “This sword likes me!  
I shall name it, and it shall be known  
By name of Beowulf’s Bride, for none other can bear  
My touch but it, in peace, in war.  
It is most worthy! A boon to Garr!”  
Then Garr was loaded with golden treasure  
And sent back home, relieved just to return  
With honor, fortune, life not forfeit for failure.  
Beowulf hefted the sword, squeezed its hilt again,  
Then declared his will: he would dare the Roc.  
This quest was his. He would have no friend.  
All did this protest (though some did weakly),  
But the king was adamant. He went all alone.  
They waved him on with blessings and hopes,  
Then returned within the hall for mead and meat.  
Beowulf did need better shield-brothers and friends.  
He noted this thought, then held aloft his sword  
And began his journey. By nightfall, his destination  
Was already well reached. He waited, was quiet.  
No sign of Roc that night surfaced.  
The bird of dread slept in a barrow  
Near the southern seacoast. At dawn it stretched  
And woke from sleep. Its wings swept wide,  
Skimming each wall of the grave’s earthen sides,  
And from its throat broke forth a cry  
That would shatter glass and the hearts of men.  
Beowulf, bold warrior-king, heard the foul beast  
As he saw the sunrise eat the darkness.  
Garr’s sword in hand, he stood and gazed  
Towards the yawning mouth of yonder ancient barrow,  
The final resting place of an ancient ruler  
Now very long forgot by all mortal men,  
His deeds undone by time, the harrower of all.  
Not long did Beowulf brood upon these thoughts,  
But with broad steps, sure and full of purpose,  
Speed and righteous fury, did he face his foe.  
“Come forth!” Beowulf’s voice called, thunder loud.  
“Roc of southern climes, your wrongful trespass is  
Discovered, by blood you have bought my anger!  
Raise yourself and fly, if blood-soaked wings  
May still carry you, and meet your doom,  
For I am here to avenge brave Roan,  
Good man, good warrior, whom you have murdered!”  
At once the Roc, bird of ruby wings,  
Scarlet-death and singer of blood,  
Erupted straight from the earth’s womb of death  
And made for Beowulf, bright eyes a-glitter,  
Its beak held wide to taste warm flesh.  
The king’s sword was raised, his arm was strong,  
And he did smite the bird a smarting blow,  
But Garr’s strong blade broke to tiny shards,  
Though by the force of the king’s fearsome hands  
Or the sudden shock of the Roc’s iron feathers  
No one may tell. Anyway, the sword died.  
Beowulf stared hard and long at the bladeless hilt,  
Then said to himself, “I might have known,”  
And pitched Beowulf’s Bride from him into the sea.  
The Roc, riding winds of wrathful ecstasy,  
Seemed almost to laugh to find this lord  
Without a sharpened sword, bereft of weapons,  
And yet still fixed upon a hopeless fight.  
Then wheeled the bird in midair, wings taut,  
And as from pagan times Thor’s deadly lightning bolt  
Did strike with speed and destroy all life  
(Dark times before light, sad times of violence  
Unlike these when blood all has some meaning,  
Or so the bards do tell listening ears,  
As golden firelight glistens on the axes  
That hang and wait upon the mead-house walls),  
So the death-bird dropped its talons  
Upon high Beowulf’s head, wanting to batter brains.  
But the king’s shield was strong and sure,  
Buffeting away the attack, bringing the Roc uneasy  
Thoughts that perhaps there yet was cause for worry.  
As the bird turned and made to swing round  
Once again, to sink those talons into sinew,  
Beowulf glanced up and down the deserted beach,  
His eyes searching for a weapon, but finding none.  
Then the water roiled, and he remembered Grendel,  
The monster’s mother, the deep water battle,  
And he thought aloud, “If once, why not again?”  
So plunged himself into the freezing surf.  
It was cold, numbing cold, and breath came painfully,  
But Beowulf mastered himself, though how he breathed  
Beneath the sounding waves, I do not know,  
Nor does any man. Mayhap he had gills.  
On this the bards stay silent and secret.  
Whate’er the reason, whether holy miracle  
Or gift of sea or unknown oddity of birth,  
Beowulf walked about on the sandy bottom,  
The blue light shifting like a second sky,  
But peace was shattered. The Roc spied him  
And dove beneath the waves, demon-bird, wroth  
With fury, its claws searching for flesh.  
Beowulf hurled a rock of mighty size  
Towards the oncoming bird, and it struck full hard,  
Making a cry burst from the carrion-maker’s throat.  
It disappeared to air, and Beowulf searched again  
For aught that might be used in battle.  
Lo! A strange sight! He saw a sword  
Lying by a stony bank, its sharp blade  
Most odd, and yet he saw it looked mighty.  
Beowulf pulled it towards him, but soon found  
The mighty sword was in fact a mighty fish!  
Upon its piscine face a blade did protrude.  
It did not seem happy to leave sleep, either.  
“A swordfish!” cried Beowulf, through a series of bubbles.  
“The Almighty has sent an awesome gift to me!”  
Then he dashed out the fish’s dumbstruck brains,  
Grabbed its still-warm corpse, and rushed ashore.  
The Roc, which now was returning to fight,  
Saw Beowulf come forth, stand on the beach,  
Hold aloft the swordfish, and scream a challenge.  
The beach was narrow, backed by a cliff  
That rose the height of many men skyward.  
Here they would fight, and one would live.  
The Roc descended, shrieking its death song,  
Though for whom it sang, it knew not.  
All the wild things of that solitary place  
Stayed their racing breaths, still as ancient stone  
While that fierce battle reached its boiling.  
Beowulf’s sword of bone contended swiftly  
With the Roc’s speed, and its descent stopped.  
It hovered, wings beating, like unto a hummingbird  
Of gigantic size, gore red and onyx eyed,  
Pressing the brave king against the unyielding cliff.  
He found himself between a Roc and a hard place  
In truth. Then swung his arm most terribly.  
His sword’s sharp tip pierced the bird’s chest.  
With pain it faltered in its flight, fell,  
And lay panting on the blood-soaked sand.  
Beowulf took the swordfish and swung it home  
Once more, burying to the hilt in blood  
The piercing sharp blade. The Roc did scream  
And breathe its last. So end we all.  
Beowulf, satisfied, left the bird corpse to rot,  
But the dead swordfish, unwilling yet good servant,  
He returned to the sea, flinging it forth  
With a grateful prayer for the mighty gift.  
The steep, sheer cliff he climbed in stride  
For little there was he could not do  
When to his mind he set to do it.  
Then he collected the remains of Roan,  
What little had escaped the Roc’s wrath,  
And returned with them to his mead-hall,  
Mixing his mighty victory with the due mourning  
Of a good warrior. A great funeral pyre  
Was ordered by Beowulf, and the other warriors  
All amazed to find their lord alive,  
Did quickly build one, and burnt upon it  
Rich offerings of gold, for Beowulf had much,  
And they were earned by the earnest warrior.  
Even in death, Beowulf repaid his debts.  
This was a good king. He kept the country  
Safe of all monsters, and in his might  
He protected the weak. Though yet his warriors  
Proved less than brave, less than properly noble,  
He did forgive them. The Geats rightly declared  
That no king ever on earth could compare  
To their bold Beowulf, slayer of wicked beasts,  
Protector of the land, defender of the people.  
For many more long years peace did reign,  
And Beowulf, brave king, ruled all in health.

**Author's Note:**

> I attempted following the Anglo-Saxon poetry rules of repeated initial sounds, four stressed words per line, caesuras, and kennings to some extent here, but not in absolutely every line. Then again, neither did anonymous, so I hope this is up to scratch. Enjoy! And my apologies for the pun. I couldn't resist.


End file.
